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floral-force · 1 year

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American Hospitality - One Shot

Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader

summary: A girls' night out gets interrupted when a handsome stranger spills your drink. Can this mystery man salvage your night with chivalry and smooth British flirting?

words: 2.8k+

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY/NO MINORS, flirting, innuendo, meeting at a bar, alcohol, drunk task force 141 are little shits, ghost is a gentleman, meet cute, Chicago traditions

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part 2: breakfast in bed

The crowd was rowdy and unpredictable—Saturday nights always brought out the annoying drunks—and you were used to being pushed or moved around, but never with such force. Usually, being even a little tipsy meant you brushed off that type of contact, but this shove was so jarring that you couldn’t ignore it. That, and you’d just turned away from the bar with your new drink in hand. The shove knocked it to the ground, thankfully missing your outfit and ruining the grimy tile floor instead.

Just as you were about to scold the person responsible, you looked up and saw a broad chest right in front of your eyes. Tilting your head back a bit more, your eyes widened at the sight of a man in a black balaclava, a skull jaw printed on it, his wide brown eyes and raised eyebrows the only visible features. A large hand came to rest on your left bicep, and you gulped. Here was one man you didn’t want to pick a fight with; you could cough up another ten dollars for a replacement drink.

“Fuck—I’m sorry, love,” he said, the pet name and low British accent making your heart skip a beat. He looked you up and down. “It didn’ spill on you, did it?”

You dumbly shook your head no, your buzzed brain too stunned to speak.

“Thank God, else I’d feel even worse,” he sighed and moved his hand to the small of your back, guiding you back to the sticky bar top. “Now then, let me buy you a new one.”

“Oh, no, it’s okay,” you shouted over the music.

He was so broad and tall that he commanded space, forcing people to move out of his way. Being ushered by someone with that type of presence made your heart flutter. It didn’t help that the black shirt he wore was tight around his arms and torso, accentuating his size. Feeling his hand on your back made your skin hot in the best way possible, as did his deliciously deep, accented voice.

He shook his head, and you noticed that his pale exposed skin had a hint of a blush near his eyes—just barely.

“Nah, I can’t let a pretty gal like you have her night ruined by an arse like me.” His eyes landed on yours, taking you in with a calculating stare. “What’re’ya drinkin’?”

You swallowed. “Um, a, uh,” you stuttered and rubbed the back of your neck, hot under his brown eyes. “A vodka cran.”

He nodded. You watched him flag down one of the bartenders scurrying around, jealous of how easily and quickly he was able to do it. His hand remained on the small of your back as he ordered your drink and maybe something else, but you weren’t too sure; you were too focused on trying to slow your heartbeat and breathe normally. One pink drink and one dark brown drink in shitty plastic cups were set down, and two shots of amber liquid soon joined them. You heard a muffled word of thanks as he handed the bartender cash, stuffing his wallet back in his pants pocket.

Before you could take your drink, he set it down in front of you. His hand dwarfed the cup—he could easily crush it in his fist.

“Now,” he said, turning to face you, taking his hand off your back. “My mates and I heard that we had to take a shot of Malört while we’re ‘ere in Chicago.”

You grimaced, eyes falling on the ominous liquid in front of him. You sighed deeply and shrugged, meeting his eyes. “It’s fucking awful, but it is a Chicago thing.”

He chuckled. “So we gotta sort this ourselves now?”

“We?”

He shrugged. “Can’t do it alone, love.”

“Let’s be clear,” you said, smiling and pointing a finger at him, “I’m only doing this because you got me a drink.”

“Oh, absolutely. You’re a right saint.” He handed you one of the shots, taking the other in his hand and pulling up the balaclava enough so he could drink. Your lips parted when he smiled. “Name’s Simon, by the way.”

You told him your name, standing on your tip toes as he bent his neck so he could hear it. He repeated it a few times, straightening and looking at you with something affectionate in his eyes. “I like the way it sounds, sweetheart.”

You giggled like a schoolgirl talking to her crush. You raised your shot, and he followed suit. Feeling bold, you said, “Here’s to Chicago, and handsome strangers.”

Simon chuckled, a low rumble from his chest. “I’ll drink to that, and to meetin’ stunnin’ lasses.”

It was your turn to laugh. You tapped your glass against the bar top and brought it to your lips with a grimace, knocking it back as fast as you could so the taste didn’t hit before you could swallow. You tapped the glass twice against the counter, hoping that you timed it right. Luckily, you had, and it hit a few seconds after the Malört had burned down your esophagus. You shivered and shook your head, immediately gulping down your vodka cran.

You heard a deep ugh and looked over to see Simon setting his empty shot down and shaking his head. He looked over at you and pursed his lips.

“Yeah,” he rasped, “that’s fuckin’ mingin’.”

You laughed at his response; seeing the reactions people had to Malört never got old. The sweetness and tang of vodka from your drink had finally covered the fermented licorice taste, and you watched Simon drink his, chestnut eyes squeezed shut as he chugged. He set the empty cup down and looked at you. You were twirling the straw in your drink, absentmindedly gazing at him, and embarrassed when he caught you looking.

“Like what you see, sweetheart?” he purred, pulling the mask down again.

You nodded emphatically. “Very much so.”

“Me too,” he breathed, taking a step closer. When he brushed a thumb across your cheek and pinched your chin, you bit your lip and stared up at him through your lashes. Simon shook his head and clicked his tongue. “Don’ go lookin’ at me like that, pretty girl.”

Usually, you hated the smell of whiskey, but on his breath, it was intoxicating. “Why not, Simon?” you asked innocently, setting your drink down.

He inhaled sharply and got even closer, your bodies almost touching. The heat in your gut was almost unbearable, burning with anticipation. He placed his hands on your waist, kneading your flesh with his fingers.

“Because you won’t be able to walk when I’m through with you,” he husked, eyes sparkling with lust.

You giggled and placed your hands on his broad chest, stroking up and down. The man was toned—you could feel the muscular ridges under the tight material—but soft at the same time. The Malört must’ve melted part of your brain because you suddenly imagined what it’d be like to let your hands explore his bare torso while he was on top of you. You just knew it would be a holy sight and sensation.

“I’ll take my chances, hot stuff.”

“You’ll give me a proper Chicago welcome, yeah?”

He squeezed your waist and you saw the corners of his eyes crinkle with a mischievous smile. You nodded emphatically, never breaking eye contact.

“I’ll give you that and more,” you purred.

He chuckled, then his sultry tone dropped. “How much ‘ave you had to drink, love?”

You took a deep breath and forced air across your lips as you thought. You glanced at the abandoned vodka cran, barely half empty. “Aside from that—” you jerked your head- “and the Malört? Maybe two. I got here an hour or so ago with a few other friends.”

He nodded, his eyes dropping to the floor, hands loosening. Simon met your eyes again, asking, “You free tomorrow?”

You smiled and playfully tapped your finger on your chin, looking up at the ceiling as if you were thinking. “You know what, Simon? Suddenly, my schedule is wide open. Oh, and my legs if you’re interested.”

Simon shook his head and laughed. “Cheeky thing,” he commented, a hand rising to pinch your chin. He then pulled out his phone, the bright light illuminating his pale skin, his hands nearly dwarfing the device. He unlocked it and pulled up a blank contact page, looking back up at you. “Before we get too battered, what’s your—fuck, what d’you Yanks call it—cell phone number?”

You rolled your eyes as you started telling him, hearing him swear when he pressed the wrong number with his too-large fingers. He asked you to spell your name—“Don’ wanna fuck something that lovely up, lass”—and nodded, quickly sending you a text so you could save his number.

The text he sent made you shake your head and rub your temple. Simon grabbed your arm, gently stroking it.

“Somethin’ wrong?”

“No! You just didn’t strike me as a ‘kissy-face emoji’ kind of guy.”

“That a bad thing, sweetheart?”

You beamed up at him, putting your phone back in your pocket. “Not at all. But I do get the feeling you aren’t like this with your ‘mates,’” you giggled, using air quotes around the British word.

He rolled his eyes. “It’s the skull mask, innit?”

You shook your head, taking a sip from your forgotten drink. Tilting your head to the left, you gazed straight ahead behind him and jerked your chin forward. “Something tells me it’s that pack of guys pointing at you.”

He whipped around and you heard him groan. “Fuckin’ hell.” Simon turned to face you again, picking up his drink and finishing it off in less than ten seconds. “Yeah, those’re them.”

“You know,” you said, puckering your lips. “Are any of them single?”

Simon raised an eyebrow and leaned against the bar, resting a fist against his hip. “You’re not ditchin’ me already, are ya, love?”

“Oh, absolutely not. I’m incredibly excited to have those arms around me tomorrow,” you stated. “But I do know my girlfriends would love to flirt with some British guys.”

Simon stared at the ceiling, silent as he considered your offer. When he looked back down at you, he nodded. “Under one—no, two conditions.”

“Shoot.”

“One, nobody goes home with anyone tonight.”

“I like that.”

“Two, everyone takes a shot of Malört.” Simon exhaled, fiddling with his empty cup. “I need those twits bloody humbled.”

“Aye-aye, cap’n,” you giggle, giving a fake salute. “You sound like you give orders all the time, Simon.”

He took a step closer to you and gripped your waist again. “Most people call me lieutenant,” he husked. “But you can call me daddy.”

You were absolutely flustered, words catching in your throat. Before you could attempt to respond, you heard raucous laughter and saw two men ambling towards you and Simon. He immediately turned and put his back to you, his left arm slightly out in a protective stance. His words left you burning and you felt your pussy throb with sudden arousal. You’d explore that innuendo tomorrow; for now, you were focused on taking in the grinning men converging on Simon.

One of them waved at you with a toothy grin. You could see the drunken blush blooming on his pale ivory cheeks, and you couldn’t help but chuckle. “Oi, Ghost! Who’s tha bonnie lass?” he yelled, a Scottish accent underscoring his query.

“Soap, I’ll fuckin’ end ya,” you heard Simon growl.

Another man stared over at you, his cool sepia arms toned and a wide smile splitting his face. He nodded at you and raised his thin black brows. “Ol’ Ghost ain’t scarin’ you too much, is he?”

“If he is, I’ll knock ‘im on his arse!”

“That’ll do!” Simon barked. You placed a hand over your mouth to stifle a laugh, but he heard it anyways and twisted his head to look at you. “Y’alright?”

“I’m perfect, Simon,” you chuckled, pursing your lips and holding back a laugh when his eyes widened as his friends started to howl with laughter.

“Steamin’ Jesus, LT!” The one you assumed was Soap doubled over and guffawed. “Gaz, go get Price!”

Gaz nodded and turned, expertly weaving through the thick crowd. He quickly returned with a bearded man, brunette with a few lines and a smattering of freckles on his ivory face. You assumed this newcomer was Price. Gaz dragged him next to Soap and jerked his chin at you.

“Ghost here told this lass his name,” Gaz chittered.

A smile teased Price’s face, and he nodded. You saw Simon bow his head and groan.

“And he didn’t scare her off?” He looked between Soap and Gaz, who both shook their heads. Price smiled up at Simon and stepped forward, clapping him on the shoulder. “Attaboy, Lieutenant!”

Price’s shoulders shook with a suppressed laugh as Gaz and Soap burst out laughing, and you couldn’t help but laugh too. The sound rose over the din of the bar, your cheeks pained from smiling so much.

You cleared your throat as the laughing died down, and the three men looked at you; Simon’s eyes had never left you. He turned so his back was to the bar, leaning his left arm on it.

“You guys ever had Malört?” you inquired, raising an eyebrow.

When they all shook their heads, you looked up at Simon. He tilted his head towards you and sighed, broad chest rising up and down.

“Well,” you declared, “You can’t say you visited the great city of Chicago if you didn’t take a shot of Malört while you were here! My treat.”

“Simon!” Price exclaimed, his brow furrowed.

“Yes, Captain?” Simon sighed.

“You’re gonna let the lass pay?”

“Bloody hell,” Simon murmured. He grumbled and pulled out his wallet, turning around to order the nasty shots as his friends hollered and laughed. He looked down at you, shaking his head and chuckling. “What am I gonna do with you, sweetheart?”

You shrugged. “I dunno. I’ll leave that up to you, Lieutenant.”

He clicked his tongue and stared down at you, pinching your chin. “Oh, you’re askin’ for it now, love.”

You dreamily smiled up at him, leaning against the bar and propping your elbow up on it, resting your cheek in your palm. Simon ordered and paid, the three shots sitting ominously on the counter. Two vodka crans were set down soon after, and Simon placed one next to you. He lifted the balaclava, revealing his pink lips to you as he sipped his drink, pale blond lashes fluttering on his cheeks. You raised an eyebrow, wondering why he hadn’t ordered whiskey and coke again.

“Simon.”

“Yeah?”

“I didn’t peg you as the type of guy who likes vodka crans.”

He smirked, the thin black straw resting on his lips. He said your name, and you were enamored with the way his lips looked as he said it. You hoped he’d be pressing them all over your skin tomorrow. It would be a fucking tragedy if he didn’t.

“I’m a man of taste, love. Besides,” he said, taking one last sip before pulling the mask back down. “How can I not like ‘em after spilling one led to me gettin’ your number?”

You nodded. “Fair enough. It’s probably my new favorite drink because of this.”

He snorted, making you giggle. He rapped his fist against the counter and gazed into your eyes.

“Now, how about we make those clowns suffer?”

“I thought Chicago was welcoming, sweetheart,” Simon teased.

“Oh, please,” you scoffed. “I was ready to fight you when you spilled my drink.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And how would that have gone for ya?”

“I’m feisty,” you giggled. “But maybe not as well as letting you buy me a new drink.”

“Probably right,” he nodded, rubbing a large hand on your back.

He turned around and slapped Soap’s back with the back of his hand, the man startling from the force and sound of it. The men instantly crowded the bar, each taking a shot glass. Simon moved to stand at your left side, angling himself and acting as a barrier between you and anyone dumb enough to risk spilling on his feisty American girl. The men looked to you, and you raised your drink with them, Simon following suit.

You beamed at them, warming up when Simon placed his hand on the small of your back. “Welcome to Chicago!”

As they took it, you and Simon both took a few sips from your drinks. You looked up and patted Simon’s arms, and he leaned down.

“You’ll get your second welcome tomorrow, handsome.”

You gasped when he quickly squeezed your ass.

Simon straightened to his full height again. The corners of his brown eyes crinkled with a smile, and he nodded. “Oh, I plan on it, pretty girl.”

a/n: I'm a proud chicagoan and just needed to post some gentleman!ghost and goofy vacationing task force 141...also, malort is as awful as it sounds. but if you visit and you're 21+, you gotta take a shot of it. hope you enjoyed! UPDATE: i wrote a part 2 to this fic called breakfast in bed! it is all smut (with a dash of fluff), so give it a read if you'd like.

masterlist | join the taglist! | part 2: breakfast in bed

#simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley fic #ghost x reader #ghost x you #cod fic #call of duty #call of duty fic #task force 141 #gentleman!simon riley #he's a man of honor and treats a lady right #flirting with ghost #meet cute #my fic

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